Chapter Two: Alan Carter

[Author's note: Though some research was done to add to the authenticity of the story, please remember that this is fiction. No attempt was made towards true historical accuracy, though some of the characters introduced were real people at the time, and the location was a real location.]

Alan Carter found himself alone in an overgrown field, the sky above stippled with patches of grey cloud. It looked nothing like Berg. He slowly turned a circle, taking in his surroundings. Some distance away there were cleared areas and a cluster of buildings. He could see figures moving around.

While trying to make sense of his surroundings he became aware of a low drone like that of… aircraft engines? That made no sense but he still looked up at the sky, shielding his eyes from the sun. Then he saw them: three planes coming in low over the trees, two of them trailing wisps of black smoke. They were heading for the cluster of buildings and before he could even think about it, Alan found himself jogging in the direction of the constructions.

About halfway there he stopped dead in his tracks and his jaw literally dropped. Those were… those were biplanes? How could that be? He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but it was unmistakable: olive drab colored biplanes with a circular insignia. As he stood gaping at this incredible sight the first of the three planes made a rough landing and several figures from the buildings started running towards it.

He still stood frozen to the spot as the other two planes touched down but then he reached for his commlock. "Commander Koenig? Alan here… you won't believe what I just saw!" The instrument remained dead in his hand. "Commander Koenig, come in please?" But there was no reply.

Shaking his head as if to wake himself, Alan resumed walking towards the buildings. Men were now surrounding the three planes, assisting the pilots and carrying one who appeared wounded. No one had noticed him yet and he was glad of that, as he had no idea what was going on. It gave him time to think… he remembered heading towards the golden pyramid in the moon buggy with Professor Bergman, reaching out to run his hand along the surface of it… and then he was in this field.

He had drawn close enough to see that the men were all dressed in what appeared to be army clothes. Several men were beginning to push one of the planes closer to one of the buildings. He now noticed that it was some kind of canvas structure slightly taller than the others, that there were four more and they had wide open entrances; no doubt some kind of hangar. Then some of the men started noticing him, pointing and alerting their friends. A trio of men started running in his direction and all three had guns, so he did the only thing he knew: he raised his hands.

The men surrounded him, studying him with as much bafflement as he studied them. Their clothes looked tattered and old fashioned; he wondered for a moment what they made of his traditional Alpha uniform. One of the men whispered to another and they pointed at his commlock and stun gun affixed to his belt.

"Hey, who are you?" one of the men finally barked in a broad British accent. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm Alan Carter," he replied. "And I'm not sure…"

The three men looked at each other and started laughing. "Hey, he's one of those new Aussie blokes," one eventually managed to utter. "Bastard must have gotten lost!" This was followed by more laughter.

"Where are your mates?" a second man eventually asked.

"I'm alone," Alan answered, perplexed. "Where am I?"

"Yer in France, mate," one of the men laughed. "What's with the funny clothes?"

"I could ask you the same," Alan retorted, but then thought better about aggravating these men. They had the guns and looked a tough lot.

"What's that eh?" the same man asked, pointing at his commlock.

Alan looked down and thought furiously for a moment. "It's… errr… a communications device."

"Ne'er seen something like that!" The man looked at his friends. "'Ave you?"

They shook their heads. "Maybe he's a Gerry," one said, stepping back.

Alan latched onto the one thing they had said he could use. "Look, it's true I'm one of the new Aussies, and I'm totally lost, hungry and thirsty. Can I get something to eat here?" He simply needed to get to those buildings to try and make more sense of what was going on.

"How did you get here?" another man asked, indicating with his gun for Carter to head towards the buildings. But before Alan could answer, the drone of more planes was heard and two more biplanes came skimming over the treetops. The men stopped to watch.

"Damn red Gerry," one of the men exclaimed angrily, and then pushed Alan forward. They started towards the cluster of buildings again. The brief interruption had given Alan time to think about the question, so he replied:

"Had to abort from my plane," he started. "Parachuted in. I think the others are lost."

"Wait a minute," the tallest of the men exclaimed. "You're a balloon guy?"

"No, no, our plane," Alan replied, but the three men stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"Planes don't have no parachutes," one man finally said. "What kind of damn plane?"

Alan realized he had made a mistake and thought furiously of a way to rectify it. "It's… errr… a new method us Australians are trying," he finally managed to blurt. "I flew a new kind of plane, an eagle."

The men narrowed their eyes, studying him suspiciously, but urged him further towards the buildings. He could now see a grouping of dirty white tents, some wooden sheds and some more planes in the hangars.

More of the men busy around the airfield stopped to study the approaching group and several approached them, talking excitedly. Alan's arrival at this unknown place was causing quite a stir.

A man from the crowd stepped forward. "Who is this?" he asked

"We found him over there in the field, Major," one of the three men answered. "He's an Aussie."

The major walked around Alan Carter slowly. "He's a strange looking Aussie. What are those?" He pointed at the commlock and stun gun on Alan's belt.

"It's a communication device and a weapon," Alan replied, meeting the man's gaze. Immediately more guns were raised, all aimed at him. Alan raised his hands again. "Look, I mean you no harm," he said. "I'm just as confused as you are as to how I came to be here."

"Let's go to my hut," the Major said. "We can talk there." He turned to his men. "Get those planes ready so we can fly again."

Alan followed the man, who appeared to be in charge. The group of men did not break up immediately though, conversation still lively about the stranger. But eventually the soldiers started drifting away, returning to the tasks they were performing.

Alan Carter and the Major entered a hut filled with maps, equipment and a simple wooden table with a few chairs. Alan looked around trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Everything looked very old, especially the maps. There were a few black and white photographs and an insignia: No. 151 RFC "Foy pour devoir" behind the desk, and photographs of different biplanes. Then Alan noticed the old calendar on the wall: April 1918. His mouth dropped open.

"I am Major Quintin Brand," the man offered, indicating a chair, "the commander of this unit. Who are you and what are you doing at my airfield?"

Alan thought carefully for a few seconds. His mind had been churning about everything he had seen, and he had concluded that wherever he was, it seemed as if he had landed in a war zone because of some kind of time warp. He had to answer carefully so as not to endanger himself. "I'm Captain Alan Carter, and I'm Australian," he replied. "I'm not quite sure how I came to be here, and where I am. I had to abandon an aircraft because of an emergency."

"You are at Crécy airfield in France," Major Brand replied. "We were expecting an Australian group to replenish our squadron. Are you telling me the other men are lost?"

Alan nodded slowly. "Yes, I think so." His eyes were still darting around, taking in everything around him. If it truly was 1918, he concluded that he had somehow arrived in the middle of World War One. Now he had to figure out what he was doing here, and how to get back to Berg.

"And are you a pilot?" the Major asked.

"Yes, I am," Alan replied, thinking about the flimsy biplanes he had seen. How hard could it be to fly one of those?

"We'll get you some suitable clothes. Have you ever flown a Sopwith Camel?"

Alan shook his head truthfully.

"I'll show you the basics," the Major continued. "We don't have much time to waste and we have several sorties still to fly today to support artillery. We also have to find that red bastard."

"Red bastard?" Alan asked, perplexed.

"Von Richthoven," Brand replied. "He's been annihilating our planes almost single-handedly."

A few things clicked in Alan's head. Any boy fascinated by flying, as he had been, had heard about Manfred von Richthoven, the German flying ace from World War One, also known as the "Red Baron" because of the color of his planes. He shook his head as everything sunk in: through some unbelievable cosmic twist he had traveled back in time to be at the time and place where this Red Baron was causing grief. It was just the kind of challenge Alan relished, and he gave a brief smile.

"I'd be happy to get rid of him for you," Alan said.

To give him credit, the Major did not laugh. "Let's go get you some gear and get you up to date on a plane. We're short of pilots so if you can keep the Camel airborne, welcome to the squad." Then the man pointed at the stun gun. "May I see that, please?"

Alan unclipped his weapon, made sure it was on "stun" and handed it to the Major. He could see it baffled the man: the light weight, the strange shape, the color and the absence of a magazine. "I can show you how it works," Alan offered. "Outside though. It's a new, experimental weapon."

Brand nodded but kept the stun gun as they walked outside. There was still a group of curious men gathered nearby to watch their commander's hut, no doubt eager to lay eyes on the stranger again. Alan indicated to some trees behind the building. The two of them walked over while a group followed a few paces behind.

Alan stopped about 20 meters from a tree and looked at Brand. "Aim it at the tree; then push that button," he said. The man studied the weapon again, looked up at Alan, took a shooter's stance and did as he was told. As the laser beam shot from the stun gun, lighting up the tree with sparks, the Major dropped the gun with a cry of exclamation. Several of the onlookers backed away too, their eyes huge. They all stared at the long black scar that had appeared on the trunk.

Instead of picking up the stun gun himself, Brand indicated at Alan to do so. He did so slowly and carefully and held the weapon out to the Major, who shook his head. Alan returned it to his own belt.

"Get him some clothes then bring him back to me," the Major snapped. One of the men among the spectators stepped forward and nodded to Alan to follow. He kept glancing at Carter over his shoulder, keeping a respectful distance. They reached yet another dilapidated hut. The man threw open the door and gestured for Alan to enter.

Inside the hut were piles of old clothes. Some were torn and Alan could even see blood on some of the garments. There were one-piece khaki flying suits, leather aviator helmets, gloves, boots, goggles, jackets: all things Alan remembered from photographs he had pored over as a boy. He went inside and proceeded to rummage around finding things that looked as if it would fit him. He found a flight suit with a fur collar that fitted him well and was not too badly torn, some goggles, a leather helmet with full fur flaps, gloves and a pair of boots almost the right size and proceeded to simply dress himself while looking. He eventually opted to stick with his Alpha boots, but by the time he exited the hut he looked much like the other men around the airfield. The only difference was his own belt with his commlock and stun gun.

The man took him back to the Major's hut, where Brand was ready and escorted Alan to one of the hangars. It was time to learn about the planes.

Two men jogged over upon seeing their leader, and Brand gave them quick instructions. One man went to fetch a step ladder and placed it next to one of the drab-olive planes. Brand indicated for Alan to get in the wicker seat in the cockpit, then stood on the ladder beside the plane.

The simple wooden dashboard held but a few instruments compared to an eagle, and Alan quickly identified each but still listened respectfully as Brand pointed them out: tachometer, pulsometer, magneto switches, altimeter, clock, air pressure, airspeed and the compass and inclinometer. The cockpit was small and confined and Alan quickly identified most of the other controls: throttle, fuel tank selector, mixture control, and the control column. Overshadowing the cockpit controls were the twin gun controls. It all looked simple compared to an eagle, but Alan reflected that flying one of these canvas contraptions was probably far more difficult than it looked.

"Think you can handle her?" Brand enquired, seemingly satisfied at Alan's intelligent perusal of the cockpit.

Alan nodded. "I think so," he replied. "Get her fueled up and give me a couple of flights and I'll be able to tell you more accurately.

The Major descended the ladder and Alan followed. Immediately some men came over and started attending the plane. Alan followed Brand as they made their way back to his hut. "Excuse me for asking," Alan tried, "but you don't sound British either. Where are you from?"

"South Africa," the Major replied, pushing open his door. He went over to one of the maps which Alan concluded must be a map of the area. "Keep your training flights to the west here," the man indicated. "Towards the east you'll most probably run into German fighters or ground fire. Do a few takeoffs and landings, that's where most novices struggle. She has some unique characteristics: the forward center of gravity and intense torque, but if you're good you'll get her sorted and fall in love." The Major turned to Alan Carter. "And keep your eyes open. The Germans like to come out of the sun from above and catch you."

Alan felt excitement growing inside him. As strange as this time-travel experience was, he couldn't wait to fly a real World War One fighter. What a story that would be if he ever got back to Berg! He followed Brand outside again and they walked over to the landing strip where the plane had been pushed. The Major took him around the plane one more time, rattling off the pre-flight checklist, then stood by as Alan Carter climbed into the cockpit.

"Good luck son," he said. "You know the saying… go get your wooden cross, your Red Cross or your Victorian Cross." Alan frowned, simply because he did not know that saying, but then he took a deep breath, nodded, and busied himself with the controls. By some incredible stroke of luck and long buried knowledge from his love for flying Alan got the engine going with the propeller man. The smell of castor oil was strong in his nostrils. He looked around the cockpit one more time, reinforcing the placement of all his controls in his mind, and then the pilot in him simply took over. The light biplane started rolling forward and he heard a few men whistling in amazement.

The take-off run was short and before long Alan found himself lifting off. His sensitive hands and pilot skills immediately picked up the sensitivity of the ailerons, elevators and the rudder as well as the slight pull in the tail. Using his compass he headed west, keeping low and just getting the feel of the plane. It was an incredible experience and he could hardly believe it. He kept to a straight line for a few minutes; then began working on some turns. He quickly figured out that turning to the right required the top rudder to hold the nose up and that the plane turned much slower to the left with a tendency of the nose wanting to rise. But being an incredibly intuitive pilot with many hours of flight in a multitude of planes and spacecraft, Alan soon found himself beaming from ear to ear as he mastered the simple little plane. He circled the airfield a few times then approached for landing, shutting off fuel air and gently glided in for an almost perfect landing. Men rushed over to the plane and he read admiration and awe on their faces and flashed them a thumbs up; then indicated with his hand that he was going up again. The men helped bring the plane around and Alan found himself airborne again in a few minutes. This time he was determined to practice a few tactical turns and rolls.

To Alan it was sheer pleasure. In his mind he remembered many of the things he had read about the Sopwith Camel as a boy, but his training made him a natural. He was able to turn, roll, climb, descend and put the little biplane through its paces easily. By the time he landed it felt as if he had been flying one for years.

As the men helped push the plane back to the hangar, Major Brand strode over. As Alan climbed down from the cockpit, the man came to attention with obvious respect and extended his hand. "Welcome to the squadron, Captain Carter. We are lucky to have you, I see."

Alan let out a slow breath of relief. He had done it! With one backward glance at the little canvas plane, he strode confidently towards the buildings. From suspicious glances the men's faces had changed to reflect awe, admiration and wonder.

"Get something to eat," Brand called behind him. "Briefing for our next sortie in an hour."

Alan found himself in a group of six planes heading to the trenches to supply some areal support to infantry fighting. They would fly in low and simply lay down as much fire as they could at the enemy trenches. Of course there was the chance that there would be German fighters around, but Alan felt no fear. The whole situation was still too unreal for him.

He had been appointed wingman for one of the other pilots, Peter Cook, so he stayed behind and to the outside of the formation, scanning the sky around them. He had taken his little plane up twice more the previous day, practicing more maneuvers he remembered from pictures and movies during his youth and felt very confident about his skills. The Major seemed more than pleased, and the other men had quickly accepted him in a spirit of camaraderie. He had spent the night before moving from group to group mostly to listen and learn about this strange, unique experience. It had only been when he was laying on a cot in one of the tents that his mind started wondering how he could make his way back to Berg, if it was even possible.

But now his attention was on this incredible mission during World War One, flying a Sopwith Camel Biplane in the Somme region of France, knowing that the most notorious German ace, the Red Baron, was quite possibly in the sky somewhere. The danger did not faze him; on the contrary, it energized him so much that thoughts of Berg and the other Alphans were far from his mind. All that mattered was the drone of his little plane, the strong smell of castor oil, his fellow pilots and the mission at hand. He had learned most of the hand- and wing signals surreptitiously the previous day so apart from scanning the sky, he watched the other planes for any such signals.

In the distance he could see smoke and below him terrain decimated by warfare. Even the sound of gunfire was audible, so low were they flying. Then the lead pilot gestured and they were over the trenches, diving fast, their guns opening up with devastating force. Everything flashed by fast, but Alan could see guns below swinging around following the planes, he heard the gunfire and even felt the bullets flying through the air all around him. He felt the little plane shudder a few times as bullets thudded harmlessly through the canvas body and then they were past and climbing up and away in a long left turn. All their planes still looked intact, and he could see the other men frantically scanning the air. If there were German fighters about, now would be the time they'd join the fight.

They were able to complete another dive unhindered before the leader indicated that they were returning to the airfield. Alan remembered that this was a dangerous time too. German fighters might have taken off once intelligence of the attack became known and could be following right now, coming up behind the RFC planes to attack, so he fell back a little further, increased his altitude and scanned carefully, executing a few turns to allow for better visibility. His first sortie turned out to be uneventful, though, all six planes landing safely with just some superficial damage from ground fire. Alan was thoroughly exhilarated but also somewhat disappointed. He was aching for the first real combat, where he could test his newly acquired skills against another fighter.

After their debriefing Alan went outside and just sat some distance away from his plane, studying the machine. By all his standards it was an incredibly primitive machine with some obvious structural flaws. He had felt it in the amount of unnecessary drag and was trying to come up with a way to improve it ever so slightly without overplaying his hand as a pilot from the future. He felt his best bet was to somehow provide a slightly thicker leading edge to the wings and he wondered how it would affect the handling of the plane. First though he needed to find a way to add a curved, thickened addition to the wing, so he spent the next few hours strolling around the hangars, studying the other few planes around and looking at all the material available. Then, with a rudimentary sketch he went in search of Major Brand.

Since he didn't want to mess too much with the weight of the plane he had settled on the thin aluminum coiling used on the nose of the planes. He was hoping a thin strip of this could be bolted onto the leading edge of the bottom wing, with an extra layer of canvas stretched over it to create a better version of the modern rounded wing shape. Major Brand heard him out patiently and studied the drawing for a long time.

"You've seen the Fokker," he finally said, looking up at Alan. "They have wings like that."

Alan nodded carefully. "The thicker wing does not produce more drag as is commonly believed," he then said. "It actually lowers the drag."

Brand looked at his new pilot for a long time. "You are a strange man, Captain Carter. I get the feeling you don't really belong here, but you put on an incredible display of handling the Sop, which had been the undoing of many pilots far more experienced than you." The Major then got up and paced his hut, deep in thought. Finally he seemed to make up his mind. "Come with me," he said.

Carter followed him to the last of the hangars. It had been closed during his own exploration, but the Major now unlocked the big padlock and they pushed open the doors. Before them stood a strange plane, and Alan recognized the German markings. The plane looked intact.

"It's a Fokker Dr. 1," Brand said. "The pilot had landed in a field nearby with a small mechanical issue, but we were able to capture him and his plane before he could fix it. Think you can fly it?"

Alan walked around the triple-winged craft. It was a beauty and he immediately saw the improved wing design. He looked at the squadron commander.

"Get rid of the German markings and yes, I'll fly it. I don't want to be brought down by an enthusiastic Englishman uninformed about my test flight."

The major laughed. "I'll get you some guys and some paint. You can paint it the way you want yourself." Despite the fact that he was aching to return to the sky, Alan spent the rest of the day with two silent men, Archie and James, slapping paint on the German craft. He was able to mix as close to a light blue as he could get for the belly, and large swathes of greens and browns for the top. Though the men never questioned him, Alan could see their curiosity at his strange requests. Finally he left it to Archie to add the large RFC insignia on the wings and tail. He went to bed tired that night, and briefly dwelled on Berg and his fate before falling asleep.

By the time he was ready in his flight suit and had eaten breakfast, the Fokker had been brought out of the hangar and men were attending to it. He strolled over and found Major Brand already there. There was another plane nearby. "I'll be your wingman on this flight, Captain," Brand said. "I want to see that thing from the sky. We'll be flying southwest and hope ground gunners will accept the British markings before firing. The Fokker shape is well known and well feared, another reason I'm flying too. Seeing a Sop beside it might make the fellows a little less trigger happy."

Alan took his time walking around the plane, studying it carefully. Then he climbed into the cockpit. It wasn't hard for him to identify the instruments and controls despite the German words. Fortunately the important things were all numbers. He nodded at Brand. "I think I've got it," he said. "I can take her once around the airfield if you want, before you join me. Just so I become familiar with the controls and don't damage your plane with a stupid mistake."

Brand nodded and the air crew helped Carter start the Fokker. As Alan climbed, he was immediately aware of the easier handling of the German craft. Below him the airfield crew gaped at the Fokker and Alan made a couple of passes before he saw Brand's plane taking off. The Major fell in beside him and they headed east. After a period of straight flying, Alan indicated with his arm that he was going to do a few turns and rolls. His wingman fell back.

The plane was much more responsive than the Sopwith and Alan found himself laughing out loud as he turned, rolled, climbed and dived. He even felt confident enough to execute a high-g barrel roll and a defensive spiral. He noticed Brand performing some of his own maneuvers, but after a few more minutes of the men trying to outdo each other with their displays his commander indicated that they were heading back.

After landing Alan found the other men even more deferential and in awe of him. Brand strode over, pulling off his gloves and flying helmet. "Tomorrow we're taking part in a big sortie," he said, extending his hand. "You'll fly with me, and you'll fly the Fokker."

"Yes, sir!" Alan replied smartly, excitement welling up inside him.

The morning of April 21, 1918 dawned bright and blue and the British fighters left their briefing hut, making for their planes. The ground crews were making final adjustments to the planes, making sure everything was in perfect condition for this mission that would take them once again to the enemy lines and beyond. Carter's plane had its own crew, men who knew how to work on the Fokker, and as he climbed inside, Alan thanked them each with a firm handshake.

"Go get the Red Baron, Aussie," Archie said.

Men were rolling out the planes, and the little Camels lifted off one by one, falling into formation. Alan fell in behind his leader, Major Brand, and stayed somewhat higher than the other wingmen. He had asked Brand if he could use some of his own skills and Brand had agreed, as long as he followed general orders. His chief orders were, though, to stay high during the ground attack: the British forces wanted to keep him as a secret weapon and were hoping to draw out the German fighter planes.

As they neared the front and the Sops descended to strafe the ground with their guns, Alan climbed higher and scanned the skies. He made some turns high up so as not to hinder his fellow pilots as they came in for a second run, and as he made a wide turn to join the squadron, he saw them: tiny black specks approaching from the northeast. He dived down quickly, signaling with his arms and just as quickly climbed again to act as a lookout above the British planes. The pilots formed up in their assigned pairs and Alan saw combat spreads forming. His heart was thumping with excitement as he made a wide turn so as to take the German planes completely by surprise from behind.

Then he saw it: the bright red Fokker with the stark German markings bringing up the rear of the group of German planes. Several groups of fighters had begun engaging each other and the sky below him was filled with darting, dodging craft. Alan focused on the red plane, sweeping in from above and jockeying to line up for a good attack. But the German ace was smarter. He must have spotted Alan's plane, for he broke fast, but Alan pulled his plane into a perfect barrel roll and found himself almost beside the German plane. For a moment he saw the astonishment on the German face as the flying ace realized he was up against one of his own craft, but Alan didn't linger. He looped quickly to try and place himself behind Von Richthoven, but the latter had ended up with a perfect line of sight on another British plane and simply disregarded Alan while firing his guns at the new target. The wounded Sopwith started a death spiral to the ground, trailing thick black smoke.

Alan had to make a few evasive maneuvers as other German fighters seemed to have honed in on him. He was able to do a quick wingover before swooping down on one of the German planes, his guns blazing. The pilot threw up his hands before slumping over in the cockpit and the German plane began its death dive.

By now Alan felt at one with the plane, and he was diving, rolling, looping and climbing between all the other craft. At times he came so close to other planes that he could clearly see every expression of fear, determination, desperation and anger on the faces. He had momentarily lost the Red plane, so he engaged enemy craft he could spot. Once or twice he felt bullets rip into the canvas of his own plane and one bullet even slammed into the cockpit beside his leg, making his adrenaline surge. He climbed again, looking around for the red Fokker.

He spotted the German coming in from the left, clearly aiming for one of the Sops, and taking a perfect line for a perfect hit. Even as the German guns spoke, Von Richthoven pulled up over the stricken plane and set off in pursuit of yet another British craft. This Sop tried to break with a low Yo-Yo and then a spiral, but the red German plane stuck to its tail with masterful maneuvers, guns blazing. Alan could see bullets ripping into the little British plane as it sped low across the ground and realized it was just a matter of time before the German got in a deadly shot.

He made an instant decision and went into a fast, steep dive to pick up speed. Bullets were flying around him, both from other planes and ground fire, so he rolled and coaxed his plane into unbelievable maneuvers until he found himself barely above ground moving at incredible speed and coming up to the right and just behind and below the German ace's plane. He could see the faces of some of the British troops on the ground below him, their faces filled with unbelief as he pulled the plane up, aiming it straight at the red menace and opened up with his guns.

For a brief second the German glanced back in surprise at this unexpected attack, but then his body jerked and he slumped sideways in the cockpit. Alan had barely time to glance at what was happening as he shot over the red Fokker, fighting to control his own craft, but he knew he had scored a hit. He was suddenly surrounded by planes again, but they were all British, and as he leveled out he became aware of a Sop beside him. For a brief moment he met the eyes of Quintin Brand before in front of him suddenly appeared the strange golden pyramid that had landed on Berg. The British fighter plane dropped away evasively but Alan Carter closed his eyes and flew straight into it.

When he opened his eyes he was prostrate on his stomach on the familiar moss-like Berg ground cover, completely unharmed but still dressed in his World War One flight suit and gear.

"Alan!" It was John Koenig's voice. He pushed himself up and turned to see Commander Koenig rushing towards him from a cluster of vehicles. Some meters away was the tip of the golden pyramid, still hovering above the ground. Alan jumped up to meet Koenig.

"Are you OK?" Koenig inquired. "We've been looking for you and Victor for 72 hours!" The commander had stopped and was studying his chief pilot in his strange getup. "Some of us were just waiting here in case something happened."

"I'm fine, Commander!" Alan replied with a big smile on his face. "But you won't believe where I've been and what happened to me…"

(To be continued...)